


Love in the Time of Cupcakes

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Dom/sub, First Time, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dlasta and I wanted more stripper fic. So, strippers, and hot possessive first time sex against the car. There is a cupcake too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in the Time of Cupcakes

**Author's Note:**

> Written with dlasta, who writes the hottest porn ever (but has no A03 account).

The club is packed to the rafters. Mostly young, sparkly men and women in groups for bachelorette parties, but enough older people so Carlton doesn't feel entirely out of place waiting for Walter. Who is late. Again.

Spencer would like the place. If for nothing else but the fact that a lot of the drinks came in bowl-sized glasses with enormous chunks of fruit hanging from the rim. And the strippers. Carlton bets that Shawn would like the strippers the best. All shiny, oiled abs and bouncy...parts, right in your face. Prettier strippers than in most places, too.

Lassiter sips his scotch and tries not think about Spencer, or to look like he's looking. It's hard. Strippers like him, for some reason. He doesn't really get why; he's not that good a tipper.

Walter is, usually with Carlton's money. The SBPD has a snitch fund and he's not the one paying in the end but it still bothers him to waste money. Sure, the strippers deserve the cash, it's a job for a reason; he just would prefer to pay for something more permanent than half a minute of in your face nudity. Unfortunately Walter is mostly good with the info and has a ridiculously pricey taste in 'entertainment'.

The hypnotic movement of the gleaming, tanned flesh in front of Carlton's face distracts him from noticing Walter's arrival until right before the man flops down onto the seat next to Carlton's. The stripper takes one look at Walter and slinks away to the other side of the stage.

Carlton would have been disappointed if not for the fact that the look from behind is even prettier than the front. Smallest string bikini bottom to ever cover anything. Maybe 'cover' isn't the right word when Carlton can't see any tan lines. Anywhere.

"Carl, my man. Enjoying yourself! Or almost enjoying?" Walter is as always, slightly nasal, obnoxious and oblivious. According to his jacket, Walter is only in his thirties, but in addition to the drug use that's pock marked his skin, he has a stringy, greasy comb over that is almost a match to his stained, threadbare suit.

They make the usual small talk, with Walter letting out few choice tidbits about drug dealers in the neighborhood and leering at the strippers at the same time. It's nothing spectacular but enough to justify the money Carlton slips across the table. The moment the money leaves his fingers a pink string wearing young man appears almost magically, a dedicated gleam in his eyes, to drag Walter in the back. Carlton is impressed.

In a higher end place like this, it takes quite a bit of money for any stripper to want to give Walter any kind of dance, especially a private one. Which is why Walter had asked Carlton to meet him here—that and the creepy way Walter likes to watch Carlton's reaction. Anyone else knowing Carlton would never expect him to be here, which is why it's a great place to meet a snitch like Walter.

Carlton's eyes go back to the stage. The few sips of Scotch are tingling on his mouth, warm in his blood, though as Walter had been quick to notice, he wasn't unaffected by the bodies parading around in front of him. And it had been a while since Carlton had gotten laid. Hell, it's been a while since he's even been able to think of it without a certain psychic entering his thoughts. He sure as hell hasn't been able to focus enough to date.

He could probably leave. Probably should have already. He could go home, jack off, watch the news or Law & Order, eat something. If he stays, Walter will just scam more money out of him.

But he could stay, if he wanted, there was absolutely no reason he couldn't watch a bit longer, have some new material for later besides the usual. It's not like he's doing anything illegal here, just watching. It could even be counted as him doing his bit for the economy. Or for the sad state of his sex life. He wonders if his state of sexual frustration is obvious to everyone.

It must be, because suddenly the blond stripper from before appears from behind him. The man is now wearing the tiniest gold lame shorts and sits in Carlton's lap without asking.

There's something about the act that makes Carlton's dick jump, like it's been trained and trained well, though bodies that muscular aren't generally his taste. Not bad, but he likes something a little softer, less obvious. Worn and wrinkled denim, unbuttoned flannel, subtlety wrapped around an unsubtle package, a smug little bastard plopping down on top of him regardless of time and place and letting him know, letting _everyone_ know, that he knows he could have Carlton. _If_ he wanted.

The fact that it's true, and it's only Carlton's sense of pride and self-respect—and fear of the inevitable heartbreak once he admits to needing Spencer so much—that's keeping him from enjoying what's being offered.

Flaunted, really. Like Spencer is no better than the blond slut who was taking Carlton's silence as a permission to grind against Carlton's erection. He's surprised enough to put his hands on the lean thighs for balance.

As though to prove that everyone is suddenly desperate for Carlton's dick and not just out to mock him or after his money, the stripper leans forward and whispers that he could blow Carlton right now, for free, in the back or any place he chooses.

He feels naked here, vulnerable without his shoulder holster, though as Spencer would say, he's definitely still packing. His hard-on is undeniable under the stripper's tight ass, and his thin suit giving no protection against the ride.

Oh crap, he's a cop and nothing about this is good. He has a reputation, even if no one but Carlton seems to remember it anymore. He used to think his name was all his had, but Spencer had made it clear he doesn't even have that anymore. He's just _Lassie_.

Which might be why a part of him whispers that today is—was—his birthday—and this is what he has to show for it. That O'Hara's embarrassment at forgetting had been all there was to commemorate the occasion. Nothing else. Not even a visit from his ex. Not a single lousy card. Hell, his mother hadn't even called. The one person who _had_ remembered had of course been Spencer... Spencer. Carlton's chest tightens at just the name. And Spencer's version of celebrating had been to sit his ass down on Carlton's desk and rub his hands over his chest like some poor man's Marilyn and start singing "Happy Birthday" at the top of his lungs—which had actually been the only reason O'Hara had remembered at all.

By that point, Carlton had just wanted the day to be over, but no, he'd humiliated himself further by staring at Spencer's hands roving over his own body, unmistakably licking his lips at that wide, welcoming grin, and had only been saved by a call from _Walter_.

He's felt tense, hot, since that moment, Spencer getting up to strut around his desk, moving slowly, so very slowly, but definitely coming closer until he would have ended up in Carlton's lap again, and he would have felt Carlton's arousal, not missing something like that, not Spencer, and because of that, because of how much he would probably love to make fun of Carlton for finding him so irresistibly sexy, Carlton had bolted out of his seat, out of the station.

He hadn't even finished the Chief's paperwork for her. And now here he was.

There's no way this situation will end well for him. He's right in front of the stage, with people left and right, and the young man in his lap is very, very good at his job. Deceptively enthusiastic, athletic, and ruthless with the grinding. Probably owns a horse of some kind.

It could be a trap; Carlton has arrested enough people in his time to have enemies beyond the ones he has met face-to-face. It's just that the blond is hard in his little boy shorts and…it feels good, authentic. Like he just has a thing for older guys who possibly could boss him around if they wanted. Maybe make it sting a little.

The guy smirks like Spencer when he knows he's winning. It smirk says 'I know you love this'. Too bad for Lassiter that nowadays his body thinks being annoyed is the same as being turned on. And being turned on and then annoyed means it's just going to get better.

He can't _not_ grab a hold of the ass in his lap. Because it feels amazing, and because _someone_ has to guide the stripper a little.

"We gonna go back or...give the nice people here a real show?" There's a glint in the blond's eyes that says he might like to flaunt his prowess a little. Even if it meant being fired. Carlton considers that he maybe has a type. Or that maybe certain kind of people just like to mess with him.

He should tell the blondie to get off his lap. Or at least, slow the fuck down so he won't come right in front of various leering customers. People are paying attention now. With his luck, Walter is right behind him already, possibly taking pictures. The creep.

Coming hard in front of a crowd of strangers isn't something that's going to enhance his reputation around in town, as anonymous as he is in here. It definitely isn't going to do much for the smirking, pretty boy attempting to ride his dick, practically daring Carlton to pull his hands from that tight ass and put them in his hair, grab him in a firm grip and force him down onto his knees, audience or no audience.

It's always so tempting when Spencer is having his way again. Carlton has always wanted to let him know, right there, in the Chief's office, at a crime scene, just who's in charge, make Spencer beg for it, like the cockslut he is. Every damn time he got groped on the sly or rubbed against, looked at with those bright eyes.

It's stupid to resist, he knows it, but he's not giving to give Spencer what he wants, again, not without something in return, something more than the promise of mind-blowing sex and a joke.

Of course, he doesn't have to resist now, if he doesn't mind everyone here knowing his business.

Considering what the other people are doing, in the back, in their tables, in every corner of the room, they have nothing to stand on if they disapprove.

Carlton smirks in return though his mouth is open and he is panting a little, and brings his hands up, over a slick, too-muscular back, shooting one glare at the bouncer thinking about coming his way. He knows how places like this operate. They may generally frown upon touching the merchandise but they also need a _reputation_ to be popular, to sell. And what he's doing may be on the edge of decency but it's also something that makes people spread the word and come back again.

Screw the bouncer. Carlton's going to be the only one coming in the next few minutes. He starting to think he doesn't even care who knows that. What does his reputation matter when at least he can finally shut that smart ass mouth up by filling it with his cock?

He gets his fingers wrapped around blond hair--not messy, not soft, not almost brown--and brings the man's ear to his mouth. He smells like other men and Carlton wishes for something sweeter, like pineapple, but he's not likely to get that, even if he did fuck Spencer.

"You, outside, no..." he starts to order and then transfers his glare up and over at the high, excited sound of Spencer's voice.

God help him, his cock jerks at just the sound, the knowledge that Shawn is there, and when he sees the green eyes focused on him, barely green at all, mostly black with dilated pupils, his fingers flex and release.

"What in the name of justice are you doing, Twon?" Spencer demands, his face red and feverish. "I said have fun while I picked the kids up from the sitters, not screw some bimbo on the dance floor with half the town watching."

"Kids?" The stripper asks, not that Carlton really hears him. "Twon?"

Spencer is here. A part of Carlton isn't even surprised. Of course Spencer is here. Because Carlton doesn't already think of Spencer, have to see Spencer, hear Spencer, smell Spencer, every waking moment of his work day, now Spencer is here, has probably been here the whole time. Watching him.

There's a frown at Shawn's forehead despite his loud, embarrassingly over the top declaration, and Carlton shifts back even knowing he shouldn't.

There's a remarkably hot stripper spread across his junk, but none of that matters because Shawn Spencer is looking at him.

Carlton clenches his jaw and hates himself, just a little.

It's not like the nick name 'Lassie' wasn't bad enough without him actually coming when Shawn whistles. Jesus.

Fuck.

He better move fast because the stripper in his lap looks suspicious. And, surprise surprise, like he might not let go so easily. Why is it always the difficult ones who want him? It's a question he's asked himself a lot in the past year, though the speculation is as pointless as wondering why Shawn words are ludicrous but his scowl seems genuine. As though Spencer has some real objection to Carlton getting laid with someone else--which at least means that Spencer is aware that someone could actually want Carlton, that Carlton could have gotten laid tonight if he'd really wanted to.

The fact that he _had_ wanted to is irrelevant.

For two seconds Carlton considers not giving a damn and going with the one who might actually do him. Then Spencer takes his gaze off Blondie and aims it right at Carlton. His mouth looks soft.

"Baby, don't be like that." Carlton unclenches his jaw and tries to put enough whine into his voice to be believable. Painful and embarrassing though the situation might be, he's always enjoyed undercover work, and anyway, he has to get out of this situation with what was left of his reputation intact and without making a bigger scene. Which Spencer had known, damn him. "He meant nothing to me." However, the cover that Spencer has provided isn't much better in the humiliation department. Carlton's so bad at stuff like this. And parts of him are not ready to stop.

The stripper looks enraged. As if he has been grievously insulted and not at all like he's a grown man wearing clothes that cover less than a hanky, with a nice wet spot forming on the front.

His vengeance is a swift and unmerciful roll of hips that makes Lassiter see white, and before he even realizes it the blond is off him and halfway across the room. The view is still great from behind, though.

The audience continues to be interested, including the stripper on the stage who is half-assedly taking off what looks like a Boy Scout uniform. Shawn is…

Shawn is looking at Carlton's crotch, slack-jawed.

Carlton pulls his jacket closed and tries not to die on the spot. There is no way in hell he can cover his dick up. And he's not taking his jacket off just to hold it in front of his inappropriate hard on. He's not a kid, and damn it, he's in a _strip club_.

"I can't believe you've done this to me, again. I'm taking the kids and going to Mom's." It's spectacularly bad dialogue from Spencer. And he's not even looking Carlton in the eye. Or that much above his belt, really.

After three agonizing seconds Spencer gets his head back into the game and storms out with Carlton taking his chance and following him, making "Baby, please'" noises to distract from the erection stretching out the line of his pants.

Most customers have lost their interest by then. There's not going to be fist fight and the stripper on the stage has managed to get his shirt off. There are better things to see than a couple fighting and Carlton embarrassing himself by following Spencer's lead, _again_.

They keep the play up until they reach Carlton's car. The lack of people and music feels deafening on the outside. The situation sinks in and Carlton pretends to look for his car keys until Spencer gets annoyed and puts his hand in Carlton's left pants pocket and drags them out himself, fingers trailing an inch away from the world's most persistent hard-on.

"…The fuck were you thinking?" Shawn barks out, holding the car keys like he's never letting go, knuckles white against his ever present tan. He sounds so disbelieving that Carlton can feel himself getting riled again. It's been a lousy day, a lousy, frustrating year, and he doesn't even have his _gun_. The last thing he needs on his birthday is Shawn Spencer expressing surprise that someone else might find him attractive. That he's not as boring and safe as Spencer probably thought he was.

It wasn't like it would have been anything lasting, anything beautiful like out of a movie. It would have been exactly what sex with Spencer would probably be—a one time thing.

"Strippers like me." It's not an answer and Carlton knows he sounds like he's spoiling for a fight. But he's still hard, aching, maybe more now than before, and he can't help himself. He's all primed for action and the energy needs to come out somehow.

"Of course strippers like you. As long as you give them money, they like you all night long." Condescending and pissy, like Shawn has a reason to be cranky. They're going to get arrested for a fistfight on the parking lot of a strip club. And Carlton still can't stop himself. He steps in.

"I didn't give him any money." Fuck being ashamed. A good looking guy offering to fuck him for free is not a bad thing. If Shawn is shocked that somebody might want him for real, it's not Carlton's problem.

"Yeah, right, he rode you like a dirty pony in full view of every damn body, just for the sake of getting to know 'the beast'." Shawn snaps back, making finger quotes.

Carlton _hates_ finger quotes. He works his jaw. Spencer won't stop talking, like he can't.

"That's porn, not real life. In real life you get diseases from borderline prostitutes in metal toned and sparkly underwear and a stolen wallet. Are you even sure he was legal?"

The only thing Carlton is sure of is that the guy was legal. Well waxed, yes, but otherwise _all_ grown up.

He narrows his eyes at the idea that Spencer is questioning his judgment and steps forward. It's a stupid thing to do, but he knows it, and presses forward toward the car that Spencer must have followed here for whatever crazy reason. Not that Carlton would get the truth if he asked, not that he'd get anything he believed even if Spencer answered him.

Spencer had followed him here for a case or for a "vision" or just to mess with Carlton's head some more. His workplace, his home—with its missing peanut butter—and now every place he went to outside of work, Spencer was there. Spencer was here, blinking in surprise when Carlton pushed closer and then frowning at him and staying where he was.

"He was an adult and he wanted _me_ , Spencer, and as hard as it may be for you to believe that I have other options, I do, and they're none of your business. In fact, no part of my life is your business, Spencer, no matter how much I..."

Carlton clenches his hands at his sides and ducks his head, seeing red for one moment, pissed at himself for admitting to that much with Spencer so close. Maybe that's the reason; Spencer is _close_ , wide-eyed and breathing fast, his face tilted up to argue, his lips parted. The night air is cold but Shawn is still warm like inside the club, loose where Carlton feels tight, disarmingly relaxed looking until Carlton angles his head in and sees the lines at the corner of Shawn's eyes, his mouth.

The haze at the edge of his vision lifts, just a little, something making him smile.

"What bothers you more about that, Spencer?" he asks quietly, standing there when he has a snitch inside, and had a man ready and willing to drop to his knees. "That you got something wrong or that you didn't predict me?" He's waited a year for Spencer to screw up. It doesn't feel sweet, but his heart pounds anyway at how Shawn gasps and struggles for a response.

It doesn't take him long to recover, though there's still an unfocused quality in his eyes, like he's lost in something psychic, or a memory.

"Lass, you were going to make a fool of yourself with that guy," he counters, finally, his voice not all there. But his smirk, that seems very present. And he reaches out, chucking Carlton lightly across one shoulder, though his hand unfurls, lays flat and hot against him for one moment. "You should thank me."

"Thank you?" For a second, Carlton's vision whites out again, like someone just rubbed him the right way, or the wrong way, which with Shawn Spencer is the same thing. Because Spencer is right, always right, and maybe it's just time that Carlton admits the truth to himself.

Spencer whistles, Carlton answers. Spencer knows best. About cases, about him. And if Spencer knows he can have Carlton whenever he wants, then what's the point of fighting it anymore?

"Thank you?" But Carlton can't stop the low question and pushes forward again, forcing Shawn against the car then stepping closer. "The way I see it you owe me."

Their legs don't tangle, don't get a chance to. Shawn slides up on top of the car and opens his legs in one move, and if Carlton is still aroused, then Spencer is rock hard against him.

Shawn's eyes go wider. He's not protesting, and Carlton nods. And if this is going to happen, then it's going to happen his way, he's at least getting that out of this.

"Nuh uh." Erection or not, Spencer is trying to argue, trying to be right, even now, and Carlton, puts his hands on Spencer's shirt, his well-worn shirt, and slides them under it. He can't quite breathe at the realization of what he's doing, and where he's doing it. But Spencer isn't making any moves to stop him this time.

"If you didn't want to come with me, then why did you and that nuclear missile in your pants follow me?" Spencer can breathe, and his breath is warm, his words mocking. Despite having been in a club, Spencer's mouth is only scented with fruit. "Don't say it was for the sake of the kids..."

Carlton snaps his attention up from Shawn's mouth at that bit of bullshit and whatever's on his face, Shawn shudders.

He's not even a tiny bit ashamed of enjoying Spencer's desperate attempts of regaining control. He's down right unbalanced right now. Shivery and as close to naked as a fully clothed, aroused man can be. For once, _vulnerable, easy_ to read. His eyes as bright as ever, saying he's Carlton's for the taking.

So Carlton pets the soft and slightly furry belly underneath the shirt a little more and enjoys the trembling and the way Spencer can't help but lean in.

"You knew when you made your entrance that I would have no other choice but to follow your lead. I'm not stupid, don't act like I am, Spencer."

The contrast between the no-nonsense tone and his hands slipping under Spencer's belt is priceless. It's fun to be on this side of control for a change.

He could do pretty much anything to Shawn right now and Shawn would let him. If he waits a while, pets his belly a little longer, Shawn will ask for it himself. So many things he could do to get even, to get off. To make this night worth the trouble.

"Are you even sorry, following me around, spying me? Sitting on my lap every chance you get? Making a mess of my career and reputation?" Lassiter leans closer than close, breathing directly into Shawn's ear. Shawn licks his lips nervously, blushes and suddenly avoids eye contact.

Carlton interrogates for a living and it's still surprising to know Shawn Spencer is going shy on him.

"Yeah, well, um, you shouldn't-"

He knows Shawn wants to say something about the stripper and Carlton's career. It's understandable, logical. It's just that Lassiter's gotten Shawn's pants open, belt and everything, and is sliding his hand in.

For once he's grateful he didn't park under a streetlight; they're almost hidden.

"You should say you're sorry, Shawn." Carlton gives in a little and sucks the unconsciously bared throat. Nothing big, just...enough to make Shawn inhale sharply. He breathes deliberately on the wet skin to see if he can make it happen again and is rewarded by high whine.

"I'm," Shawn tries. He _really_ tries and Lassiter feels only a little bad for the trouble he's causing by wrapping his hand around Shawn's cock.

It doesn't stop him from squeezing tightly when Shawn tries to get the "sorry" out, though.

Sorry really should be the hardest word. Carlton grins, something wild in it. And it's not like he actually expected Shawn to say it.

Spencer is decently endowed, but Carlton's always had big hands. He alters his grip, a little, enough to run his fingers over the head of Spencer's dick and turns that whine into a whimper. Spencer's eyes fall closed then reopen, and when they do, Carlton can see an intensity in them, even in the near-dark. Spencer, focused on him, needing him, and all he's done is barely touch his cock.

Carlton can feel his face heating at that look and forces himself to frown, he leans back over. Spencer doesn't seem to care where they are, what's happening. Carlton's hand is still moving—he can't help it, with Shawn finally this close—and his breath hitches up, soft words getting louder. Carlton turns, angles himself between Shawn and the rest of the parking lot and coincidentally pushes himself against Shawn's body.

There's not a lot of room, not a lot he can do without violating the public nudity laws.

Good thing Shawn responds to his voice so well. He'd never realized that before, but now it's as warm in his blood as the Scotch. Spencer _likes_ his voice.

"Yeah," he hears himself, and bends down to growl into Spencer's ear. "Say it. Say my name, Spencer, and maybe I'll let you come before there's a whole crowd watching you do it."

The reminder of what could happen and where they are makes Shawn start up. He's loud, Carlton had known he would be, the man can't shut up, not ever, but the words are surprisingly indistinct, startlingly gratifying. It's his name, his nickname, Lassie, but he'll take it.

The way his cock twitches at that is nothing to how Shawn's jumps in his hand. His hips come up, inching forward, and not for the first time Carlton becomes aware of how close and _willing_ Spencer is. All those groping sessions at the station had only hinted at what Spencer was willing to do. His head is swimming, his other hand roaming over Shawn's back, and then down to his ass.

When Carlton touches him there, even through jeans, Shawn starts in again, gripping Carlton's suit in his hands and leaning forward.

"Lassie, please. Lassie." Spencer is so obedient and Carlton's dick likes it. His heart kicks against his ribs too, but this isn't about his heart, Spencer's made that clear, hasn't he?

Carlton grits his teeth and moves the hand down in Spencer's pants. He shoves aside the underwear to get his fingernail to the leaking tip of Spencer's cock and moves his mouth to cover Shawn's at the first high cry.

"Lassie!" Spencer can't stop, moves forward again for more, but Carlton shakes his head and pulls his hand away. His palm and fingers are damp, smell salty. Shawn is shuddering in his arms but goes still when he curls that wet hand into Spencer's hair and urges his head back. He's starting to love Spencer's name for him, there's something in how he says it.

Shawn's eyes unfocus and then refocus on him. He's trembling. Willing. Practically pliant and Carlton hasn't had to do much more than rub his cock once or twice.

"That it, Spencer?" The question hurts but Shawn's expression goes stunned. "All that teasing and that's all you have to offer? I could have gotten better inside."

The twist in his gut should make him sick. Shawn blinks, his soft, startled, civilian eyes are starry. It's not tears but it could be, but when Carlton tries to let go, Shawn shifts forward again, puts his mouth to Carlton's throat.

"Better, Lassie. I can be better. So much better. You know it. Please."

Begging. Spencer is begging. As though he needs this and for a second Carlton is grateful Shawn can't see his face. But his heart thumps hard in his ribcage and then he slides his hand down, grabs Shawn's wrist and pulls his hand from his suit. He can tell that Shawn is confused, hurt, from the way he raises his head but Carlton keeps his expression fierce.

He turns it and holds it up before Shawn's slack mouth.

"Lick," he orders and Spencer jumps to obey.

He should have known Spencer would be good at it. He could never have guessed how eager he would be though, his lips parting, his tongue curling around his fingertips. The rough rasp is as close to perfection as the way Spencer moans.

The finger sucking is probably unnecessary but Carlton's not going to be the one to tell Shawn to stop. It's the most honest he's ever seen him, jaw slick with spit, lips swollen and red, artlessly trying to deep throat Carlton's fingers. Like he can't waste time to be seductive, he has to show how good he is _now_. How much he loves it.

It's quite possibly better than any actual blow job he's ever gotten. Carlton's mesmerized like any idiot down at the station watching Spencer's act. He knows it and he's starting to think he doesn't give a damn.

For a moment he just lets himself imagine how it would feel to drag Shawn down by his hair and use that enthusiasm properly. The sounds alone might be enough to get him off. But that isn't what he wants yet. Not if this is his only chance.

"Enough. Off."

He pulls he hand back and Shawn tries to follow it with his mouth, his tongue. Such a little thing, but it hits him in the best place, makes his cock jump and leak.

For a moment Carlton wonders dizzily what it is exactly that he is doing here. Then his wet hand slides better over Spencer's cock. Yeah, that's it.

Carlton kicks Shawn's legs apart, just enough to stop the jeans falling down, and rips the boxers wide open from the fly with a sharp yank. He needs better access. And he likes the idea of Shawn having something to blush about when he gets home tonight.

There's no playing around this time. No gentle touching or ball holding. Lassiter takes a firm grip and spreads the spit around. He reminds himself that he's not here to make friends.

He jacks Spencer quick and hard, dirty, the way he brings himself off after a long day of Shawn Spencer mocking him. He's only got one hand on his dick, so he brings the other up and curves his fingers around the back of Spencer's neck. Two strips and Spencer is shaking. Spencer's hands are at his shirt, his mouth open and gasping. Carlton brings him in, urges his head up, and licks a slow, wet path around Spencer's lips before pushing his tongue between them.

He doesn't stop his hand, not for a second, and his name is just a mumble against his mouth, a moan in Spencer's throat. He bends his head back, arches his neck and Carlton feel his hand curve around, hold tight to the patch of bare skin. He's not squeezing, doesn't need to, the pressure is enough, Spencer isn't moving, knows why that hand is there, why Carlton is holding him down. Carlton lets his fingers tighten, feels the throb of blood in his veins and how desperately Spencer is breathing and says it.

" _Mine_."

He can't tell if Shawn's eyes open, if he's given away too much with that, and milks Shawn's cock. Shawn arches up and not breathing at all for a second, and Carlton swallows the shocked cry Spencer makes as he comes. It's unexpected, strong, burning against his hand, his wrist, and he's still stroking, wringing more choked gasps out of Spencer, more jerky twists against him as what he's doing becomes painful. He tears his mouth away when he can't take anymore of the hurt, needy sounds, when he wants—needs—to see, but Spencer still isn't protesting. He's shivering and flinching by the time Carlton gets his hand away, his mouth left open when Carlton inches back.

His chest is heaving, stars bright and terrible in his eyes, and Carlton shakes his head, reminds himself that Spencer had asked for this, has been asking for this. It's what he wants. _All_ he wants. Without any concern for what Lassiter _needs_.

He holds up his hand, the hand wet with Spencer's semen, and thinks about making Spencer clean it with his tongue. He will, if Carlton orders him to, even now that he's come. He thinks about that mouth, and Spencer on his knees. He could have that too. But there's a voice, a damn whispering voice saying that it wouldn't be enough. That if he had Spencer like that, he'd want more.

So he uses that hand to lift one of Spencer's. When he sucks the fingers into his mouth Shawn trembles and closes his eyes.

They reopen when Carlton slides his belt free and pops his fly and shoves Spencer's hand down his pants.

"Make it good," he sneers, but doesn't let go until Spencer's fingers graze hot, shivering flesh.

He can tell Shawn expected to be using his mouth. It takes a moment for him to wrap his fingers around Lassiter's hard cock and even then, he's strangely hesitant. The way he keeps wetting his lips is a neat clue too.

The way Shawn finally goes at it is the exact opposite of what Carlton did. There's no proper rhythm, Shawn keeps looking at him and then looking back at his cock, waiting for the order to go down to show what he can do, properly. The effect is virginal and clumsy and surprisingly hot. He thinks of Spencer as innocent, and he's fighting not to pull the man closer, wrap him tight. It's a struggle just to recall why he's doing this, to keep his voice firm.

He puts his own hand around Shawn's, like hand job training wheels, wrapping them both tighter around his cock.

"You get this in your mouth when you've been good, not before."

The hand under his gets tighter all on its own. An embarrassed blush spreads on Shawn's face and he straightens a little. Like a good boy. Ready to serve.

It's not as slick as with lube, but it gets the job done. He's wearing awful lot of clothes for something like this. It's hot and damp under Carlton's collar, worse where they are touching. Both their hands are sweaty.

There's something extra dirty with using somebody else's hand to what is essentially just masturbation, staring in Shawn's eyes when hitting a particularly good spot, forgetting to breathe a little at how intense and focused Spencer is now. Shawn looks at their hands like they're the most fascinating things ever, breathing in sync with their movements, licking his goddamn lips over and over again.

When Shawn watches him come, Carlton could swear the man's knees almost buckle in sympathy.

Carlton can barely stand either, knows he doesn't fall, but somehow Spencer is closer. He can feel him everywhere, how his hand stops, the way he pauses and looks up into Carlton's face, and Carlton's too stunned, too sated and burning for a moment to get that Spencer is asking him something.

He wonders if Shawn is afraid to speak, but his lips are parted, and he's breathing as hard as Carlton is, so that's not it. He wants down, and for a second Carlton is terrified of letting him go. But he'd invented rules for this, told Spencer, hadn't he? So he nods, staring as Spencer falls to his knees, watching Spencer's head move as he cleans up with his tongue, listening to the pleased sounds and becoming aware that he's heard them before, many times, when Spencer has been near him, and realizes how he will be utterly fucked if Spencer ever makes them elsewhere else in his presence.

It hurts, in a good way, like sparks of reality, knowing that others will see this, but isn't enough to get him to tell Shawn to stop. The man's licking up come, pausing to clean his own palm and then sucking—kissing—gently around Carlton's soft cock. When it finally gets too painful Carlton pulls at Shawn's hair and he instantly stops. Carlton wants to pet him, tug him close. He hadn't known he'd had Spencer's hair in his hand, but there it is, soft and damp with sweat. His fingers are stroking gently through it without his approval.

Carlton shuts his mouth and curls his fingers, yanks. There's still something shocking about how Spencer easily rises, listens, obeys, like he never does anywhere else. It's exciting to think that he would do this again even as he's mouthing off in public, tantalizing to know that whatever Shawn Spencer does to him at the station, at crime scenes, he could turn him into this.

Carlton wants more. Just like he'd known he would.

He's not going to get it. It's like a knife in his gut, sharper than the lust that had brought them out here.

He lets go as Spencer gets to his feet and wets his own lips at how red and abused Spencer's mouth is, from one kiss, from Spencer's own tongue and need. Then Spencer turns those damn eyes on him and they're as alive as ever, but focused again, knowing, pleased.

"Lassie," he starts, his voice hoarse, and Carlton steps back.

"That's what you wanted, right, Spencer?" he demands, knowing he doesn't sound at all as strong as he had a moment before. Now Spencer knew everything, didn't he? "Well you got it." He got Carlton, revealing too much with one little word. Spencer has to know what he wants now, as wanted all along, and it makes sense, that all he would get is undeniably hot sex. It's what he could have gotten inside the club and not at all what he was looking for. "But that's all you're getting." That's rich, since Spencer doesn't want anything else, but he needs to hold on to the illusion of having a choice.

He makes himself back off, though Shawn is shivering, his pants still wide open. His hands curl at his sides and the gesture looks too vulnerable for Carlton's liking. Never mind that he'd _wanted_ Shawn vulnerable when in his arms.

"Now get off my car." He barks the order, and it shouldn't be obeyed now that they aren't fucking, but Spencer moves away. His mouth is moving, and Carlton tries not to imagine that he's saying his name again. "You might love humiliating me at the station, Spencer, but you're not going to do this too."

And as he gets into his car, snitch be damned, all he can think is that he's confused Shawn again. It doesn't feel as good as he'd always thought it would.

 

……… 

 

The morning after finds Carlton feeling like crap, drinking the station swill, pretending to work so nobody will bother him. Three people have already asked him if everything is alright and O'Hara had tried to offer him a celebratory donut in lieu of belated birthday wishes that didn't even have sprinkles. He had finally escaped into Chief's office and grunted something to keep everyone away.

Though Juliet still keeps taking quick looks through the glass, a worried—or guilty—frown on her face.

Everything is perfectly fine except for the thing where he maybe has been a dick. A dick and a bad, bad man. His memory of Shawn's enormous, possibly teary, eyes in his rear view mirror keeps getting stronger, more desolate. Carlton has never fucked and ran like that. Not ever. Nor has he ever done anything even remotely like that to anybody before.

He didn't quite know he even wanted to again. He had a sinking feeling that nobody would ever react like that to him but Spencer.

And he'd…he'd treated Spencer worse than would have even treated that stripper.

He should call. Apologize no matter how much the thought makes him wants to punch something. He could send an email since he doubted Spencer would make an appearance at the station today.

He'd write something like, '"Sorry I did dirty things to you on the parking lot of a strip club and then didn't have the decency to drive you home, or admit that I like you". Not that Shawn had apologized or said he liked Carlton either. Maybe Shawn did stuff like that all the time. Or maybe he just wasn't ever sorry.

No, he _had_ kind of said it. When Carlton had his hand in his pants, true, but he had started to say it, or explain. He'd definitely mumbled something, or at least he'd tried to. That should count for something.

Apologies were difficult; Carlton knew it for a fact.

But he also knows from experience, that if he apologizes, Shawn will continue walking all over him at work and everywhere else. He'll remembered everything Carlton admitted to last night—in so many words—to wanting more from Spencer, to needing him. He could laugh, or—what's suddenly worse—he could simply not give a crap. The only real upside is the possibility that Spencer might return some of his feelings.

A possibility that's faint, but, after last night, getting brighter. Maybe as bright as Spencer's eyes.

And if that's the case, then Carlton's only worry is what it was originally--the way Spencer already treats him as though Carlton is his personal property.

Some ground rules are needed then, Carlton decides. Firm, solid rules. Like Carlton can work with the Lassie thing, but the lap sitting has got to stop. There's already some interesting graffiti in the ladies bathroom about his 'proportions', even if he's not supposed to know about it. O'Hara had squealed for a week.

A knock on the glass of the door makes him sit up straight and stop doodling in his note pad.

Handcuffs, how appropriate. Though next to that he'd apparently written, "Stop doodling handcuffs, you're at work" and if that didn't spell out internal conflict, nothing did.

Seeing Guster makes Carlton's stomach clench in a way it hasn't since he'd looked in on his first autopsy, though he can't help a quick look behind the man for any sign of Spencer. Frankly, it's almost unconscious at this point, how he looks, waits, for Shawn. But Guster approaching him—alone—can only mean something bad. It's not more than Carlton deserves, he knows that.

He not only bent—if not broke—the law, but the more he thought of Spencer speechless and half naked in that parking lot, the more he felt sick. Even if had meant nothing but sex to Spencer, that isn't how he should have ended it. But he swallows the nerves and bile and makes himself nod for Guster to enter.

Guster is glaring one minute and hopping anxiously forward the next.

"Lassiter." He does his usual minimal greeting and Carlton grunts in reply. He's pretty sure if he opens his mouth, a stream of admissions and apologies are going to come out. It's something about the righteous, honest indignation in those brown eyes. They say everything Spencer's don't—or won't. But Carlton's too raw from a night spent tossing and turning and replaying every single second he'd spent with Shawn to attempt any anger.

Guster has to know. Carlton might wish otherwise, but he doesn't waste time lying to himself. The man sidles uncomfortably across the floor of the Chief's office and stops when he can reach the desk. That's when Carlton notices the small vanilla-frosted chocolate cupcake in his hands.

It's covered in blue and white sprinkles and has a small plastic spike stuck in it, to hold up the piece of paper. When Guster places...it...on his desk—the Chief's desk—Carlton can read the message.

The printed section of the card is baby blue and says, "Who's Your Daddy?" There's a rattle and a bottle in the corners, indicating that the card had been intended for new fathers. The red crayon writing beneath that however, tells him exactly who it's from and why. It just says, "Lassy." Spencer's spelling of his nickname.

Carlton visibly shivers.

When Carlton tears his off away from that, Guster is looking fidgety. He puts up one hand, preventing Carlton from saying a word, not that Carlton has any idea of what to say. It could be a trick. A joke. Hell, the cupcake could be poisoned. Maybe not with actual poison, but he wouldn't put a laxative past Spencer. But Guster jerks his head slightly backward and Carlton follows the motion until he sees Shawn, outside and "hiding" behind one pillar as he peers in.

That half his body is obviously visible doesn't seem to be stopping him. Carlton meets his gaze for a moment, remembers the lines of anxiety there last night, and then takes his eyes away.

He'd meant it when he'd claimed Spencer last night. He shouldn't have done it, but he'd meant it and Spencer had known that. Not that he'd looked smug, or knowing then, he'd just looked hungry, like there'd been something gnawing at him more than just a desire to have a cock in his mouth.

"You know, Shawn's not exactly subtle when he wants something," Guster remarks suddenly, and when Carlton blinks, surprised, Guster's eyebrows go up. It's too similar to how Carlton had described Shawn to himself the night before. "Eat your damn cupcake," he finishes in disgust and turns and storms out without another word. He passes Spencer with a few words Carlton can't hear, but he leaves alone.

Carlton looks down quickly when Shawn's gaze comes back to him. He stares down at his cupcake, then brings it forward and plucks the card from the top. He sniffs at the frosting a few times and it smells almost as sweet as Spencer had last night, so he licks at the tip. He's swallowing the vanilla when he sees that Spencer wrote in red crayon on the back of the card as well.

"Think of the children."

Carlton looks up. He takes a bite of the cupcake even knowing he shouldn't.

The chocolate and vanilla taste mingled together is good but the best part is watching Shawn stare at him when he eats it. So, yeah, he totally licks his fingers clean when he's done. It's worth the confused look Juliet gives him from her desk.

Shawn has turned red around his ears and the rest of his face somewhere around bite number three. He fidgets before doing the lamest nonchalant jog to the office door. Sneaking in, fast, like people hadn't seen the show already. Carlton can almost envision the huge sign over the door, saying that all cops must pay attention or miss out on the new gossip. "Lassiter embarrassment! This very minute!"

He's going to have to talk with O'Hara about subterfuge. She keeps getting caught looking, even with the folder she holds in front of her face. Everybody knows newspaper is the way to go in a situation like this.

"So, you liked the cupcake? Chocolate and sprinkles, your favorite." Spencer knows what kind of cupcake he likes. Spencer knows his birthday. Carlton would say he's starting to feel slow, but he always feels slow around Spencer, except for when he has the man's cock in his hand.

Shit, the hopeful, kind of shy sound of Shawn's voice means Carlton has to apologize properly or Shawn will take the whole blame for this and despite his being the one to blame for dozen other things, this is Carlton's fuck up. Mostly.

"Chocolate is always good." Except he has no clue what to say.

Shawn deflates visibly. "Oh."

Fucking fuck fuck. Carlton tries to inject something warmer into his voice. Why had this been easier when they'd been working on getting naked together?

"It's…it might be the best cupcake I've eaten in a long time. Possibly ever. The sprinkles were blue." Oh dear God, help him now. He sounds like an idiot. Not at all like he's sure of himself, and Spencer likes that, right? Carlton sure of himself? But Shawn raises his eyes from his sneakers, smiling a little and Carlton thinks it might be worth the shame of the blue sprinkles comment.

"Really?" Spencer scuffs his shoe, and it's the opposite of the man fighting with "Twon" the night before. "Like, do you maybe want to eat cupcakes more often? I mean, cupcakes like this one, and not just on special occasions?"

Lassiter tries to sound cool. Or at least not like he's twelve. And a girl. God and everyone at that strip club knows that isn't what Spencer wants here.

"There's a time and place for cupcakes, Spencer." That it's true, that getting something with sprinkles on it everyday is ridiculous, doesn't stop him from frowning to match Shawn's suddenly—momentarily—crestfallen face. The man hides his disappointment about the same way he hides behind pillars. Guster had been right. Damn it. Carlton clears his throat and lifts his head. "Like my house." He can't breathe. "Tonight."

Shawn jerks his head up the same way he had when Carlton had ordered him to "make it good" and the flush of heat in his face at that will be visible to everyone outside. They probably think Shawn is winning, again, and though his hands curl into fists on the desk, Carlton isn't sure they're wrong. Not that it matters. Because Shawn wants to be good, knows what he gets when he's good.

And when he's bad, well...he still gets something. Of course, from his smug smile, Shawn knows that. He parks his butt on the desk like he owns it, then wriggles as if trying for the best position, the Spencer version of a lap dance. Carlton's eyes instantly go to Shawn's ass and he can only be grateful that Spencer is being good right now and didn't choose his actual lap for that bump and grind. Carlton makes a noise and Shawn looks at him from under his lashes.

"Be good," Carlton warns him in a growl, and the cocky way Spencer licks his lips doesn't disguise the way he shivers. It probably never had. Carlton is slow after all. But his birthday is looking up, so maybe he doesn't care.

With how obvious Shawn had been, in retrospect it seems wrong not to reward him. And he still owes Shawn an apology.

Carlton picks up the card from what's left of the cupcake. The remaining frosting at the bottom of the plastic spike looks pretty on Spencer's lower lip, before he darts out his tongue to taste it. He makes one of those warm noises when the vanilla hits him and Carlton sits up.

When he glances around, only O'Hara is obviously watching them anymore, watering the potted plant by Carlton's desk with her coffee. It's a plastic plant. Carlton tries not to frown and looks back at Shawn. He knows how to apologize. All it will take is his pride. Though he probably hasn't had any of that for a long time now anyway.

He moves, leans back, and suddenly Shawn is up and plopping himself squarely into Carlton's lap. Carlton's body reacts as it always does, but he doesn't say a word when Spencer gets one arm around his shoulders and flicks his tongue over the edge of the stick still in his mouth.

O'Hara's eyes are probably round. Then Spencer shifts. Indecent. Sexy. He really doesn't need gold lame shorts.

Carlton turns his head up and settles his hands over Spencer's thighs. Through the glass, he can _just_ hear a coffee mug breaking on the ground and O'Hara cursing, scrambling madly around.

Carlton's reputation has officially been shot to hell. He is now and always will be Shawn Spencer's 'Lassie' to the people at this station and probably at that strip club and very possibly all of Santa Barbara. He really, really tries to care for about half a minute, then gives up.

Humiliation, shumiliation. It didn't matter when he had Spencer sitting in his lap.

But old habits are hard to break, and last remaining shred of Carlton's tough guy cred makes him narrows his eyes before he pulls Shawn closer. His whisper, his voice, makes Spencer cling to him and that's truth enough, unsubtle and obvious.

He smiles through his fierce blush.

"When you come over tonight, leave the kids at your mother's."

 

The End


End file.
